Headlines From a Fugitive Boy in Blue
by Seventh Sunset
Summary: Life is good for Clive Dove, one of the sleaziest reporters in London (allegedly). But what happens when he meets self-titled master thief Emmy Altava? Let's just say it involves the mob and prime minister. Soon, Clive and Emmy are stuck together in a run from the law, and a few thefts, stories, and miles later, their lives are changed. Whether it's for the better depends on them.
1. Breaking News (and Hearts)

**_A/N: I've had this idea for awhile now, though it took me some time to actually sit down and write it. Though the story is AU, I am keeping one canon event, that being the time machine incident from _Unwound Future. _That'll come into play soon enough! I'm also attempting to make these chapters a bit longer than I usually write, mainly to give the story more of a novel-esque feel. _**

_**As of now, each chapter will focus on either Clive or Emmy. But fear not, their stories will quickly come together. **_

_**Special thanks to **_**Master of Shiawase Punch**_** for being a wonderful beta.**_

_**Enjoy!**_

* * *

_Thump. Thump._ If anything, the young paper boy's favorite thing was throwing papers at people's doorsteps and listening to the satisfying sound they made when they hit the ground. Sometimes he would aim for a metal doorstep or the grass for a different yet equally satisfying noise. It added a bit of musical fun to his otherwise repetitive job.

The boy had been doing this for over half an hour, and thankfully was soon to be done with his route. He just had a couple more blocks to go, so he pedaled away, onward to the rest of his Saturday. Before making the turn onto one of the busier streets in London, he took out the thick roll of newspapers and magazines for his next customer so he could throw and keep riding. He glanced at the cover of one newspaper that was sticking up a little higher than the rest in the roll. There was a picture of a dove with a pencil in its mouth, a banner trailing from it that read _"The Morning Dove"._ The kid had seen copies of this paper in other orders before, but when he'd snuck a peak through the pages, he was uninterested by ridiculous stories such as: _"Popular Singer Falls and Injures Herself on Stage: Could Drugs Have Been Involved?"_ and: _"Politician Pulled From Election Due to Possession of Illegal Animal." _

"Wonder what someone's reading this for. Pro'ly Mr. Anderson's wife, she's one to order all of them gossip mags." He tucked the roll under his arm and tried to balance on the edge of the sidewalk he was on as he prepared himself to turn the corner. During this process however, he accidentally ran off the curb and narrowly missed and oncoming truck as he skidded onto the street. He wasn't the most graceful of paper boys, you see.

The rumble and honk of said truck was all it took to stir Clive Dove—none other than the editor of _The Morning Dove—_out of his alcohol induced sleep. He groaned a little at the rays of sun that were shining through the window, currently burning his retinas. Squinting so he could adjust his eyes to the new light, Clive groaned a little more and began to stretch. He surveyed the room, taking in the clothing strewn about and cap hung on the bed post. At least he had been sober enough to take the time to hang it; that was a damn fine cap.

Giving himself a mental pat on the back, he began trying to remember the events of the night before.

There had been a bar, of course. There was always a bar. If there was one thing that Clive did better than run one of the sleaziest newspapers in London it was going to bars after work, getting drunk, and picking up women.

Women...women...ah! He remembered taking someone home after they had each had at least four drinks. Of course he had taken someone home. It was a rare occasion for him to ever walk out of a bar without a woman by his side, drunkenly clinging to his shoulder for support with one hand as she clutched some pair of shoes (60 percent of the time they were heels) in the other, giggling for no apparent reason. This one hadn't been the best catch he had ever taken home, but she definitely wasn't the worst. Her only real issue was that she was clingier and more talkative about commitment than most women Clive picked, but hey, he liked to spice up his variety now and again.

Of course, picking up the women was the easy part. Getting them to leave, well…that was a whole other story. Clive occasionally got lucky by getting a girl who mutually wanted a one night stand. Even better yet were the ones who thought that he was_ their_ one night stand and quietly sneaked out long before he woke up. But most of the time, he found that the girls he chose were eager to go on a second date. It was probably because of his humbly good looks and sensitive personality.

Alas, Clive Dove liked his women just as he liked the papers that flew off his press: hot and easily disposable.

In the morning as they made him a cup of coffee (they always seemed to insist on making him a cup of coffee. Women seemed to think that coffee had some sort of persuasive power), Clive thought of ways that he could get off the hook without seriously offending anyone. Sometimes the classic "I'll call you" but never actually following up worked, but he only used that when he was sure the girl was relatively sane. There had been more than one incident where the young man had gone back to his flat ready for a quiet night, only to be greeted by a woman from a few nights, maybe even a few weeks ago. Clive had become more cautious when using that approach.

Just to be safe, he now tended to create excuses that he knew would let the girl down softly while also creating a story that would induce a little sympathy towards him. And yes, the, "My parents dying really made me fear committing to someone because I don't want to lose them," card had been played a few times.

It wasn't that Clive Dove disliked relationships; it was that he disliked the idea of having to commit his time to someone continuously when there were articles to write and names to slander. Besides, he wouldn't call himself a manwhore (although everyone else would); he just really liked the freedom of being able to go from woman to woman without restraint (which is the exact definition of the word).

As he gave a tremendous yawn, Clive suddenly realized that while he had been lost in his early morning haze of thoughts he'd forgotten to check if the woman he'd brought home was still there. Still a bit disoriented from his recent blinding, Clive turned his recovering vision to the space beside him…

Damn. Clive glanced at the clock on his nightstand to get an idea on the time and to plan his course of action. He figured if he got his lady friend out of the house within the next fifteen minutes, he'd have time to take a quick shower and maybe even grab something to eat before going into work. Not that breakfast really mattered. He sometimes found that an empty stomach made him more sarcastic and judgmental, which transferred beautifully when writing articles for the _Dove_. Hm, and he had a particularly juicy story to write that could use a sarcastic edge...maybe he'd skip breakfast and just get some coffee at the café nearby…

Clive's thoughts had been distracting him, for he jumped a little when a pair of hands slid past his neck and clasped across his chest. _Well good morning there, sunshine.  
_  
A voice as sweet as candy with the subtle husk of a smoker tickled his ear as cool breath floated and teased at his neck. "Morning sweetie, how'd you sleep?"

Simply to amuse, Clive began to run his own finger across the ones intertwined on his chest. Just as he expected, his companion let out a high pitched giggle and her hands retreated from their current resting place, instead moving to his back where they began to massage. Okay, that felt pretty good. But he couldn't get distracted.

"I slept wonderfully. I was exhausted enough after our little 'getting to know you' rendezvous last night."

Another giggle, "Oooh, Clivey, you're naughty!" The massaging paused for a short moment as she hit his back playfully, then resumed.

Any minute now she would ask. 5...4...3...2...1...

"Would you like some coffee?"

And there it was. Clive had learned from experience that denying the coffee request was the first step in ridding himself of these girls. "I would, but I have to get into work."

"Oh." The massaging stopped. He could tell by her voice she was pouting, maybe even questioning why he was working on a Saturday, but he didn't particularly care. He had learned a long time ago that it didn't matter how the girls he chose felt so long as they didn't become angry and decide to stalk him. Again, this had happened before.

Now it was time for the next part: the question of when their next meeting should be. 5...4...3...2...

"Well, maybe we can meet up after work? When do you get out?"

He was ready for this one too. It was asked just as often as the coffee question. "I work pretty late, and it'll probably be even later tonight. I have a deadline I have to meet."

"Oh." The pout lingered in her voice. "Um, uh...what about tomorrow or this weekend?"

Clive released a heavy sigh so he seemed genuinely sorry as he said, "I actually am busy for the next week. I have to fly out for a business trip and I won't be back until at least the end of the month." It was a tad extreme, but he knew this was the only way to get this particular girl to let him off the hook. She didn't seem like the type to believe any simple excuse.

The girl crawled over and sat beside him on the bed, pushing her brown bangs aside to reveal eyes wide with curiosity. "A business trip? How exciting! Where to? What for?"

"Well as you might remember I mentioned I was a reporter."

"Oh, yes, of course."

Clive refrained from rolling his eyes. She had been on her third drink at the time he had told her his profession, and all she had done was giggle and tell him, "Write about this," before sloppily kissing him (which he admitted to returning but only because he had been just as wasted). "Yes, well I'm flying to Chicago to meet with some fellow reporters."

"America? Really?" Her voice rose in awe.

"Yes, I guess news of my paper has been traveling. I leave first thing tomorrow, which is why I really need to meet this deadline tonight." He almost laughed out loud at his own lie. Whenever anyone said anything about _The Morning Dove_, it was rarely good, and usually was about how classless the paper was and how he shouldn't be getting paid to write trash like that. Clive always wanted to point out to these people that _they_ were the ones paying him by purchasing said trash so they could complain about it. However, he did have a small following of subscribers who actually enjoyed his work, but he doubted there were enough to gain him any positive recognition, much less recognition in a city with such prestigious journalism roots.

The girl clapped. "Aha! Clivey that's wonderful. I hope it goes well!"

He gave a casual smile. "I'm sure it will. But I really must get ready now. I'll be late if I don't hurry."

"Oh, sure!" His companion hopped off of the bed and began scouring the floor for her clothing as Clive silently heaved a sigh of relief at how easy it had been to get rid of her. He picked out his own outfit and brought it to the bathroom so he could change as soon as he was done with his shower. When he returned to the bedroom he found the girl dressed and rummaging through her purse.

"Okay Clivey, I'm leaving!" She continued to search until finally she fished out a business card. "My number's on here. Make sure to call sometime." She gave him a small peck on the cheek and then was off.

Clive checked the card: _Tracy Carmont, wedding planner.  
_  
_Oh, that was her name. I forgot the second I met her._

After chuckling a bit at her profession, he crumpled the card, tossed it aside, and went to take his shower.

* * *

Dimitri Allen knew his co-worker better than his co-worker knew himself. It was a simple fact. He knew just how the man would transform the information Dimitri gave to him into some scandalous review. He knew when he took his lunch hour (which differed every day and was never at the time usual people take their lunch hour) and how long it would take (hint: it was seldom an hour), and how much of the Clive's work he could do until he was done with said lunch. He knew how to comfort him when he felt grumpy and knew which bars to take him to so he could find a date, take her home, get laid, and cease his whining for the next day.

Yes, it was no question that without Dimitri Allen, Clive Dove would be rather hopeless.

Dimitri had known Clive ever since the latter had graduated high school. At that time he had been 23 and the young man 17. That had been a little over five years ago, and in those five years Dimitri's life had changed quite a bit. He had been working a successful job in a laboratory while writing science articles for various journals and newspapers on the side. Although he hadn't done many outrageous things during his life, that was perfectly fine by him. He had gotten to where he was by staying in line and abiding by the rules, and in turn he had been rewarded with a relatively comfortable life.

And then he realized that he wanted more.

This realization came about one night after work when Dimitri decided to get a drink or two. It had been raining, and the young scientist figured rather than getting soaked while walking the few blocks between his flat and the lab, he would sit down at a bar close by and wait until he could make the journey dry. So he headed on over to Corner Street Bar (located on–surprise!–Corner Street), ordered a scotch and soda, and waited.

An hour later the rain was still pouring, and Dimitri was debating whether or not he should just run home. The door of the establishment jingled as it had been doing every so often that night, and he casually glanced over to see who had arrived.

The boy (Dimitri could tell he was no older than eighteen) had obviously walked in the rain. Water dripped off of his jacked as he freed his wet mass of hair from a blue cap and shook it off in an attempt to dry it. Once he had placed the cap back on his soaking head, he walked to the bar and nodded at Dimitri.

"'Scuze me, is this stool taken?"

These were the first words Clive Dove had ever spoken to him, and many more were exchanged that night as the boy used a fake ID to order Dimitri and himself scotch and sodas until Dimitri wasn't sure he could safely walk home. In that time the two discussed many topics and Dimitri became thoroughly impressed by the maturity of the boy. Eventually, they began to talk about business. Clive had questioned Dimitri on his side job, and revealed that he himself had an interest in journalism. However, he was looking to start a paper on his own without any college experience. He needed at least one other partner, someone who was good at collecting information that he could then write about.

"And what type of paper is this to be?"

Clive had begun swirling the contents in his glass, creating a small whirlpool which he stared into as he answered. "I want to create a tabloid. A paper full of scandal and false accusations and judgments, you name it. I want my paper to become well known for being as sleazy as possible. I know," Clive chuckled, "why not just write a decent paper and settle for mediocrity? It's because I'm good at making things up, and I'm good at manipulating information. Rather than take a chance, I'd rather stick to my nature. Besides," the swirling ceased and he took a sip, "who doesn't want to cause a little up-rise now and again? At least I'll be giving these people something to talk about, right?"

It was in that moment that Dimitri Allen decided to quit life as a scientist and pursue journalism. Was it sudden? Yes, very. Reckless? Hell, he didn't really care at the time. All he had cared about in that moment of explanation was the young boy. He didn't plan on furthering his education, and instead was bent on diving right into life. He would need a mentor, someone who at least vaguely understood the demands of adulthood and society and how to cope with them. In a way, Dimitri saw himself in the young Clive Dove. A kid who had dreams and didn't want to think of a life where he couldn't have them. Dimitri remembered having many dreams when he was younger, but age had since wiped them from his memory. He had given up too easily, he supposed. Unlike Dimitri, Clive wouldn't take no for an answer. Come hell or high water, this boy would get his way with or without help. And for some reason, Dimitri wanted to help.

Now as Dimitri sat at a table at a local café, he thought of how Clive, no longer a boy, was a lucky bastard. If he didn't possess those impressive skills of persuasion and passion, the older man wouldn't have lasted the first week working with him. He'd since become wise to the fact that Clive enjoyed complaining, procrastinating, and above everything else: himself. Yet somehow, the boy managed to produce a complete paper's worth of stories within a single day. That still didn't change the fact he was somewhat of a prick.

Dimitri sighed and checked his watch. He was waiting for his highness to show up. Clive had texted him and invited him to grab a cup of coffee before work. That had been around eight o'clock. Now it was pushing nine, and Dimitri knew that it didn't take normal people an hour to get ready. Well, normal men anyway. Then again, Clive Dove had that ego to carry around, so the weight of that certainly must slow him down...

He heard the bell of the café door jingle and rolled his eyes at the sight that sauntered towards him.

Clive was wearing a pair of sunglasses even though it had shaped up to be a pretty cloudy day. Sure the sun had peaked out of the clouds a bit that morning, but they'd soon taken their revenge. Not only the glasses, but his hair was tousled in a way Dimitri feared his friend thought was "cool".

"Nice of you to grace me with your presence."

"Quit yelling."

"Hangover?" Dimitri did little to hide his amusement.

Clive rubbed a temple and adjusted his glasses. "Y'know, they say showers are supposed to sober you up, but they honestly just wake my brain so it remembers my alcohol consumption and decides to make me pay for it. I swear I was fine when I was kicking Tracy out."

"So that's the name of the catch of the night, eh?" Dimitri smirked as he waved a waiter over. "Jim! Yea, over here now."

A stout, muscular man hurried over. "G'morning, gents. What can I getcha?"

Clive took the reins and ordered. "Two coffees, add a shot of scotch in mine."

"Be right out with that, then." Jim jogged to the kitchen.

"Fighting fire with fire there, friend?"

"Ah, a nip in the morning is good for me." Clive had slumped forward on the table and had both elbows propped up to support his head.

Dimitri drummed his fingers on the table in a musical pattern. His friend shot him a stare that could rival the devil himself. The man chuckled at the reaction and asked, "So what excuse did you give to this one?"

"Business trip in Chicago."

Dimitri covered his mouth to suppress the guffaw that would burst out otherwise. Clive nodded to assure the other man he was well aware of the humor.

"Next you have to guess her profession."

"Ah, fashion? You're into those little airheads, right? Or maybe a baker like that one girl who you thought you got rid of and then came home to find she'd picked the lock to your flat and made you dozens of cupcakes."

Clive shivered, "Yea, I remember her: Linda Waters. No, friend, this one was pretty sane. And," he pulled out the business card he had received and handed it across the table, "she was a wedding planner."

This time Dimitri did not stifle his laughter. After all, the irony was rather perfect. He had never judged his friend for his womanizing ways, but he sure as hell had a good laugh when he heard stories like this. The best times were when Clive brought home women who turned out to be human boomerangs who just kept coming back. Once Clive had even begged him to tell a particularly clingy girl that he had died, an idea that of course was quickly shot down by Dimitri, who told his friend to grow a pair and stop trying to take the Huckleberry Finn route out of things.

"Clive, you sure know how to pick 'em." Dimitri was still snickering when Jim returned with their drinks.

"Boss says hi, by the way. I think he knows whenever you two are here when I take out the scotch for a coffee." He smiled, patted Clive on the back and went to see to a group of customers who had just arrived.

Dimitri began to fix his coffee: half a sugar packet and two creams. He hated the stuff when it was too sweet or too black, and it had taken a few experimental tries to find the combination that worked for him. Clive on the other hand drank his coffee straight black and more often than not with a shot of scotch mixed in. After all, it was "good" for him and no it did not show that he might have a problem; that was a "stupid and baseless accusation," (or so went the moody defense he'd heard more than a few times).

For a moment, both men were silent as they went about sipping their drinks, the warmth and caffeine slowly beginning to lend them some energy.

"Aaaaaah," Clive let out a long sigh, "now this is what I needed." He took off his sunglasses and laid them on the table.

Dimitri nodded, "Mmm, yea. Just the motivation I need to go out and find some good interviews for you to trash."

"Hey! It's not trashing. 'S more like...creatively stating what is wrong with a situation or person in a way that makes them look less wholesome to others."

"That was incredibly lame."

"It was an explanation."

"Clive, we run a tabloid, there is no explaining." Dimitri shrugged and took another sip. "It's not like anyone would listen, anyway. We have very specific clientele: our subscribers, those who occasionally read our paper, those who couldn't care less, and those who think we get off on slandering and wish us luck in hell."

"Dunno, I'd think the devil and I would be mates in no time!" Clive gave a mock toast with his mug and then began to swirl the coffee inside around. Dimitri had come to realize this as a habit of his. "But really, Dimitri, I don't care if we have one fan or a hundred. I just want to give the good people of London something to talk about."

Dimitri knew. That was what Clive had first told him when they had met. Over the years they had done just as he had planned, and _The Morning Dove_ became rather well known throughout London, and even in a part or two outside of the city. But now Dimitri was beginning to see a change in their sales and customer interest. It had been declining for a while now, but he had just recently realized the toll it was taking on the paper. He had been waiting for an opportunity to discuss his observations with Clive, and decided now would be the best time. After all, they were in public, and Clive rarely made scenes in public. It was to "keep his image clean" or some ridiculous reason.

"Hey, Dimitri," Clive snapped his fingers in front of his friend's face. "Lost in thought there?"

"I ah..." Dimitri let out a hesitant laugh and then cleared his throat. "Actually, Clive, there's something about the paper we need to discuss."

"What? Having trouble finding information?" Clive drained his mug and raised it to the other man. "That's the beauty of tabloid journalism! We don't need a story, we can make up whatever we want! We did that with the last issue, and the one before then."

Thinking back, Dimitri realized they had been doing this a lot lately. And maybe, just maybe, their readers were a bit smarter than they had given them credit for.

"Clive, we're boring them."

"Pardon?"

"We're boring them, the readers. We're boring them with our fake stories. I don't know if they know what they're reading's been pulled out of thin air or if they just don't care because they don't know who the people we're writing about are, but it's affecting our sales."

"So?" Said Clive caustically, "We'll just make the stories have bigger scandals, we'll be all set! As long as we have a few actual stories about actual events and people, no one'll care."

Dimitri sighed and finished off his coffee. "Clive, what we need is a big story, a big scandal that will shock people, not just surprise them, but really blow them away. And it needs to be real." He paused. "Otherwise...Clive we're starting to slowly decline into the red-zone."

This caught the other man's attention. "Wait, red-zone as in losing profit?"

"I'm afraid so. I've only just noticed it happening, but it started around the time you suggested making up stories without any background information or notable people."

Clive laced together his fingers and rested his chin on top. This talk of losing money was something he didn't like hearing. "I...what can we do to get our sales back up?"

Dimitri shrugged. "My best guess is to find someone all of London, maybe even all of England knows. Events are all well and good, but people react more to other people. Now comes the next part: do you have any idea of who you want to target?"

Clive thought a moment. He knew of plenty of celebrities that he could find some dirt on, but nothing past the realm of the usual, "caught in bed with someone", or, "fashion mishap", and the issue at hand was to write an interesting story. _The Morning Dove_ had written about so many starlet scandals that Clive feared it would be viewed as typical and easily able to be disregarded. No, they needed something no one else knew, like a story about a dark past being uncovered or something like–

Wait.

The smile that spread across Clive's face was extremely maniacal. Dimitri raised a concerned eyebrow as he asked, "Clive? What's on your mind?"

"How has our lovely prime minister been lately?"

"Bill Hawks? Fine, I suppose." His colleague's arched brow and mischievous grin gave away that there was more to this question. "Why?"

Before Clive could answer, the door to the cafe jingled loudly as it was opened and closed swiftly. A woman had just entered, a woman whom Clive had never seen before. This made it all the more surprising when she pulled up a chair to Dimitri and Clive's table and sat down.

"Sorry, boys! Mind if I sit here for a moment or two?"

The two men in address looked at each other. Clive shrugged and Dimitri rolled his eyes at his friend's typical behavior. "No, erm, go ahead."

"Thanks." In her silence, Clive could hear the woman's heavy breaths. He took a second to take her in: her yellow blazer, white pants, pink bow tie (which he found rather sharp), and her mass of curly brown hair. She wasn't too bad looking either. Clive ruffled his hair a little bit so his rugged cool look he'd been sporting would be preserved. He casually nodded at this new woman, a new potential catch.

"Can I get you a cup of coffee or something, love?"

The yellow clad stranger shook her head politely, crossed her legs, and turned her head to the door.

Clive was a little surprised; he wasn't used to being ignored, but shook it off. He stared curiously as the girl held her focus, as if she was prepared for anything that might come into the café.

His concentration was broken by a vibration from his phone. He had received a message from Dimitri: _You were saying something about Bill Hawks...?_

He glanced over at the other man who raised an eyebrow expectantly. Clive winked and texted back: _Later. We have a guest to tend to._ He suppressed a laugh as he heard a light groan escape his friend's lips.

After another minute of silence, Dimitri asked, "Are you okay, miss? You came in here in quite a rush."

"Oh," the stranger broke her concentration and looked at Dimitri. She rolled her eyes and gave a good natured toss of her hand. "It's silly really. Just a couple of guys who I'd rather not have a confrontation with tailing me down. I ducked in here as they were turning a corner so I don't think they saw me. Still," she glanced at the door again, "never can be too careful, right?"

Clive nodded, "'Course not. But if you need any help, I'd be happy to tell those men to leave you alone."

The woman cocked her head playfully. "Well, handsome man like you, I'm sure they'd listen."

Dimitri wondered if he was the only one who could sense the traces of sarcasm woven through the stranger's voice. He cleared his throat so his friend would avoid any embarrassment and said, "Sorry, miss, but me and my colleague here really must get going. Work and all that."

"Now, now, Dimitri, we can sit with the lady until she feels good and safe." Clive gave a laugh and shot a small glare at Dimitri that read, _Don't you dare think about cock-blocking me._

"Such a gentleman, offering to protect a fragile girl like me. But I think those mean bullies are gone, so I'm going to head out, yea?" She winked, "Later boys. Thanks for the chair."

And just like that, she was gone.

The two men looked at each other, both mirroring the same confused expression. Jim was the one to break their silence when he brought over their check. "Oi, who was that lady who was with you a second ago?"

Clive gave the waiter a small smile, "That is an excellent question, mate." He looked at the door. _Who are you, miss yellow jacket?_

Dimitri rolled his eyes and pulled out a ten pound note from his wallet, setting it down on the table. "Thanks, Jim," He called to their waiter as he dragged Clive out of the café. "C'mon, lover boy, we have to be big men now and go to work."

"Right, sorry Dimitri. I'm back." But in reality, Clive's mind still was imprinted with the yellow color of the mystery girl's jacket. _Let it go, mate. There's a one in a million chance you'll meet again. Besides it's not like you'd want to see her again more than once._

"So what were you telling me about Hawks?" Dimitri asked, breaking Clive's thoughts again.

And just as quickly as the woman had entered his life, she was gone, replaced with thoughts of scandalous headlines, just the kind to save the _Dove_. The grin returned to Clive's face as he thought of all the possibilities it could hold. "I've got just the story we're looking for, friend."

* * *

**_A/N: _****_Thoughts? I'd love to hear them in a review!_**

**_Until next time,_**

**_Lizz_**


	2. Pretty Girl Rob part 1

**_Last time we got to meet Clive, and now it's Emmy's turn for introductions! While writing Clive's wit is very fun, there's a special place in my heart for Emmy's sassy, strong personality. _**

**_Enjoy!_**

* * *

Applying makeup is not a fun process. You just stand hunched over in front of a mirror while your mouth hangs half open and you poke at yourself with various pencils and glosses and creams that don't even look remotely pretty until they're blended the right way. And it's not like you have any way of actually knowing whether or not you've blended correctly. People are never bold enough to go up to you and say, "Excuse me, ma'am, I couldn't help but notice your foundation is a bit streaky and is a shade that resembles an oompa-loompa." Actually, it's a mystery why anyone puts on makeup at all. Sure it may make the wearer feel confident, but god, is it really worth it?

These were the thoughts going through Emmy Altava's mind as she stood hunched in front of a mirror with her mouth hanging half open as she tried to apply eyeliner without making herself look like a Picasso painting. So far, the pencil was having its own way and one eye currently looked bigger than the other.

The woman groaned as she grabbed another makeup wipe out of its container and scrubbed until no traces of the disastrous attempt were left. She then took a deep breath and tried again for—she counted and felt like slamming her head against the counter—the fifth time.

Ten minutes later Emmy declared with a very colorful vocabulary that she gave up. She'd had plenty of successful days without makeup, and hell if she couldn't have another. She would have passionately thrown her makeup out just to make a final dramatic statement (even if she would be the only one to notice it), but she quickly composed herself.

Tantrums over stupid matters did not a professional thief such as her throw. Tantrums lead to noise, and noise brought the risk of getting caught. Not that the risk wasn't there to begin with, but noise increased the probability of the possibility becoming true. Then again, silent tantrums could possibly work...but no, they couldn't because taking the time to throw a tantrum would give whoever you were stealing from the opportunity to wake up and sense that they weren't alone.

Emmy couldn't really explain the exact science of it. Thievery was a complex concept. What it all boiled down to was: grab, run, don't get caught.

With a huff, she scowled in the mirror as she tried to maintain her frizzy brown curls. They would be tucked in a wig cap soon, but she'd found that less frizz lead to less chance of the wig slipping off. While bobby pins were a helpful aid, sometimes the mane just couldn't be tamed. Today seemed to be one of those days, because no matter how hard she tugged, her brush didn't seem to want to do the thing it was supposed to. She stared blankly at her reflection as she let go of the handle only to discover it was fastened securely in her many tangles. It was a mystery how a small, plastic object could possess the power to deliver excruciating pain by pulling out her hair strand by strand. Whoever said that paper cuts were the worst kind of pain was probably blissfully bald.

She had an important task for today, one that required a full disguise (wig, costume, makeup…well, usually makeup). Tasks like these were what made Emmy absolutely love her job. So why, today of all days, did the universe have to pick on her?

After checking the bathroom clock, Emmy decided she had enough time to at least get dressed, glance over the client file again, and take a breather before her and her hair (possibly her face, but ugh, that was most likely not happening) had a re-match. With a painful tug, she ripped the demon brush out of her hair and tossed it into a drawer with disgust.

After sifting through the Mount Vesuvius of clothing in the corner of her (otherwise spotless) room, almost being crushed when the pile nearly fell over, Emmy managed to secure a few articles of clothing. "Perfect," she grinned as she laid them out on her bed. The outfit she had chosen was a little more formal than her usual style, but that's why she'd chosen it. Today she was creating a character—specifically a young, American art collector who had heard about some valuable artifacts and was stopping by the office of Luca Abandonato, a very well-known collector, simply to peruse his trove of items…and possibly nab one from under his nose and hand it off to the gentleman who'd hired her. The gentleman was very wealthy, and should the artifact prove to be of extreme worth, Emmy hoped to walk away with a handsome payment for her services.

As she buttoned up her white collared shirt and wiggled into white pants (did tailors not realize that all women didn't possess the same stick-thin leg shape?), she practiced narrating her actions in her best American accent. "Now I'm tying my bow…booow…bowtie…b-o-w tiiiiieeee…" She wrinkled her nose as she toyed with the pink fabric. She wasn't completely unconvincing, but her normal voice kept slipping through. She hoped the men she was meeting with didn't have hawk-ears, or else she might come off as leery.

And lord almighty, she hoped she didn't have to run in the black heels she was now slipping on. She could just imagine the blisters. And pain. Emmy really was not fond of pain. As she examined the shoe's mate, she flicked at the needle-thin heel and pursed her lips at the suspicious way it bent ever so slightly before springing back into place. Perhaps she would just wear her boots…

Her internal debate was interrupted by the chime of her phone. She glanced at the caller ID and pressed the answer button. "Hi-hi!"

"Hey Emmy—"

"Ward! Question for you: boots or heels?"

"I…how did you know it was me?" Emmy could just picture the boy on the other end adjusting his collar, a nervous tic of his.

"Ward, I'm a little offended that after our two years of friendship, you're surprised at how easily I recognize your voice. Honestly you should be apologizing for not recognizing it was me by my voice."

"I called you tho—"

"So! As I was asking: boots or heels? Heels are stylish but a hell of a hassle to run in if these blokes I'm meeting with catch on to my act. Not that they will of course, my disguise is superb."

"Emmy what does this have to do with—"

"But with my boots I can run perfectly fast. Plus, they're incredibly sharp. Actually, I think I'll just go with the boots, don't you agree, Ward?"

"I..." Emmy seemed to have flustered the young man with her chatter. "I guess if they're more practical, the boots will do. Is it always this difficult for women to get dressed?"

"Dressing isn't the difficult part. Makeup and hair? Now that's a story I won't even get into at this moment."

"I'm sure I should thank you for that."

Emmy giggled at the stiffness and professionalism in Ward's tone. It came from the years of working as a receptionist at his father's medical office. There he was known as Quincy James Ward Junior, although Emmy could never picture him in such a sterile environment.

"So, Ward, what's up?"

She heard the shuffling of papers. "Well, I finished the duplicate of the artifact last night, right down to the very last signature. That little bit took me almost an hour but I promise you, it looks exactly like the original... actually, I daresay it's one of my best signature replications to date..." Ward trailed off a little, self-admiration punctuating the brief moment before he cleared his throat and shuffled the papers again. "Anyways, I have the address here, and a small portfolio to make you seem like a genuine art collector. Y'know, in case these guys want to check you."

"Please," Emmy scoffed as she returned to the bathroom to face her foe, the hairbrush. "If Luca's lackeys are like others I've met, they won't be able to tell the difference between a stick of dynamite and a candle stick."

"I mean if the dynamites disguised well enough—"

"It was an expression, Ward. Don't hurt your pretty little brain trying to understand it. Ouch!"

"What was that?" he asked tentatively.

"Don't mind me, just mutilating my scalp." She gingerly brushed again, this time satisfied by the ease at which the bristles slid through the strands. "Much better. Don't worry, Ward. I can handle these boys."

After a pause, the man on the other end sighed. "I know you're bright, Em, but you should give them at least a little credit. You can never be too careful."

"Whatever you say, dad." She heard another soft sigh, more agitated than before, if Ward could show such a side. Emmy knew she made him anxious with her daredevil nature. They were a perfect Ying and Yang: the risk taker and the reason advocator. "Oh, relax. Am I still coming to your place at eight?"

"I mean, only if you want the vital piece for pulling off this job."

"Brill. See you in a bit!"

Emmy hung up and placed her phone on the counter. After three more strenuous, agonizing minutes, she managed to brush most of the tangles from her hair, which she then proceeded to pin up and cover with a wig cap, and then her favorite bobbed, sleek black wig. _There. That should stay just fine now that it's not sitting on a pile of hair ready to erupt._

She checked her phone clock: 7:30. She possibly had enough time to put on at least some mascara...

* * *

"I am _so_ sorry I'm late, Ward. My mascara was acting weird and uncooperative and making my eyelashes all clumpy, and by the time I got it to look halfway decent, I realized it was already eight." Emmy stepped through the threshold into the young man's flat before he could say anything.

Walking into Ward's flat was like walking into the definition of art itself. It was an intriguing sort of chaos, where sections of the carpeted floor were stained with spots of dried clay and paint, and decorated with small holes from when Ward had actually cared about said spots and had removed the bits of carpet they were on, fully intending to replace them later. Eventually he realized he was prone to spillage and that he didn't have time to go out and find replacement carpet, so he gave up and accepted it for what it was. The places where the spots and holes were marked Ward's office spaces (as Emmy called them), as he had no one room designated for working on his pieces.

There also seemed to be a fine coating of pencil shavings scattered throughout the apartment, giving the feel of a freshly fallen snow; Ward most likely had been skimping on vacuuming, seeing as the project he had just finished had proven to be very time consuming. The walls were plastered here and there with sketches of old and new projects, some for original works, but most for ones he had been hired to do. Art tools littered table surfaces, and the kitchen sink was filled with both dishes and paint brushes. The clay tools were soaking in the bathroom sink.

Ward himself fit in with his surroundings. His shirt was half un-tucked in an abstract manner, and he was wearing jeans that were painted with coats of different colors, each coat most likely from a different project, and each placed there because the boy was always too lazy to find something other than his jeans to clean his brushes off on. His glasses were lopsided; there was a streak of paint on his cheek that he probably didn't even know was there, and a few specks of clay in his hair. Those he seemed to be conscious of, and he ran one hand through the strands as he used the other to close the door behind Emmy. "That's fine. You're only a few minutes late, anyhow."

"I thank my scooter and slight disregard for acceptable speed limits for that accomplishment." She winked and gave a small twirl. "So, how's my disguise?"

Ward took a step back and examined her as he would a sculpture. "It's very polished. You were right to go with the boots, they look great. The bob's a strange choice. Were you hoping it would give you some sort of sexual appeal to use over the men you're meeting with?"

Emmy stared at her friend. "_'Sexual appeal'_? Good god, Ward, could it be any more obvious that you were raised by doctors?"

"What? That's what it's called."

"Please ease my troubled mind and tell me you don't say 'coitus' as well."

"I don't."

"Really?"

"Well, you told me to say I don't."

Emmy pinched the bridge of her nose. "Quincy James Ward, I hope you realize how lucky you are to have me. And I didn't choose it for _'sexual appeal'_. When you say it like that it sounds like I'm exploiting myself."

Ward shrugged and led Emmy into the living room. "It's kind of what you're doing."

"I don't count it as exploitation if I'm the one completely in control of it. I could just have easily picked out a frumpy wig and put it on as a disguise. I chose this one because I felt confident when I put it on. Besides, I'm wearing a button down and white trousers, how sexy can it be paired with that?"

"Well the trousers and shirt are a little form-fitting. Not that that's bad," he added awkwardly, adjusting his collar. "It's also a little monochromatic…here; I may have something that can help that." He left for his bedroom and returned holding a bright yellow jacket. "I took this to be washed a while back, and it shrank. I've had no use for it since, but I never got around to tossing it. Try it on."

Emmy raised an eyebrow at the article, her expression asking, _why do you own this, exactly?_ Ward waved his hand as if he had read her thought and was dismissing it. She rolled her eyes. "It's a bit flashy, isn't it? I'm also not crazy about yellow...Oh don't give me the wounded puppy look. I'll try on the stupid jacket." She grabbed it and slid it on.

"Well?"

"Doesn't feel too big. " Emmy pulled the flaps of the jacket towards each other and shrugged a little to adjust it. "How do I look?"

Ward gave an enthusiastic grin. "Smashing, really. Yellow is a great color on you."

"I guess this won't hurt. After all, I'm not supposed to be dressing like myself. Will this get you to hush up on the subjects of exploiting and sexual appeal?"

"It will, and it can lead right into the next topics, which are the artifact and game plan for today. Oh god, I can't wait for you to see this…" He clapped his hands together eagerly and left once more. Emmy had never actually seen the artifact before, and was just as eager to see. Given its rumored value, Emmy imagined it to be a complex miniature statue, or a very abstract painting, or maybe even a relic from a European ruin…

Or maybe a white vase with a single blue line. That was what Ward was now carrying back into the living room. Emmy wasn't sure if he was aware or not, but the way he cradled it and beamed down at the small figure of clay (or what she assumed to be so) made him look like a father holding his first newborn child. The guy paid so much attention and spent so much time working on each of his pieces; it didn't surprise her to see him act like this.

Still, she didn't want to undermine his work by showing her disappointment that this rare artifact she was going undercover for was a vase. "Wow. That's…"

"Oh c'mon, Em, it's not just a vase if that's what you're thinking!" Ward gave a playful stamp of his foot.

Well damn. "Okay, I kind of was…but really? It's not something cooler?"

"It doesn't matter how cool the original is. What's cool is how perfectly I re-created it." Ward never really was modest when it came to his work. He knew he was a genius at it, so why should he pretend otherwise? "Here," he slowly held out the vase to Emmy, and she gingerly accepted it. "Check out the details."

And now Emmy could see why he was so proud. It looked—hell, even _felt_—antique. While the surface was white, up-close it had a yellow tinge that signified its supposed age. There were also hairline cracks here and there, a detail that only went further to mimic a genuine original. Ward, like the rest of his family, was absolutely gorgeous when it came to using scalpels, but the similarity ended on where the scalpels where used. Somehow the dominant trait that had been passed down by his mother and father (a surgeon and a pediatrician) to his brother and sister (a plastic surgeon and neonatal physician) had skipped Ward. So, while his father used the scalpel on his patients, Ward used them on replicas of artifacts for his thief friend to use during heists. Both jobs paid enough, but one more than the other tended to be considered the "moral" profession.

"Quincy James Ward, you've outdone yourself this time."

"Well, Ms. Altava, anything for a friend." He faked a bow. Emmy gave him a light hit on the shoulder and handed back the vase. Once Ward had placed it safely on the coffee table, he sat next to her and listened as she summarized the plan.

"So, I'll leave in a few minutes with the vase hidden in my bag. Once I'm there, I'll chat them up a bit, ask about the artifact, and pretend not to care when they reject me, which we can already bet they will. Somehow I'll get myself alone with the thing for a brief moment, during which I'll switch out the two, and be on my merry way."

Ward nodded and added, "Then I'll take it to that curator friend I have and get it appraised, you give it to the man who hired you, and we'll both be counting our pounds."

Emmy grinned at the gleam in Ward's eye. "It never ceases to amaze me that you chose this over a white hospital room and a steady, reliable income."

"I can't exactly paint said white room with a patient's bodily fluids. Or paint the patient, for that matter. It would be 'inappropriate' or something." He dramatically fell onto her shoulder. "Artists are so unappreciated."

"As are thieves, my friend," Emmy laid her head on Ward's. "Listen, it may sound all fun and games, but stealing is difficult to do well. I'm offended by how easily people dismiss it."

"Well, we should use our anger from being oppressed and go steal this artifact, which Luca won't even realize is gone seeing as my lovely duplicate will make him think he still has the original. That'll teach people to look down on us." He raised a fist in triumph.

Emmy groaned "Oh my gosh, Ward. Don't be so cliché." She pushed him off and rose to stretch.

"It starts with one, Em. Remember that," He whispered with a goofy grin as she left to gather her stuff. She rolled her eyes to try and display to him how un-amused she was, but couldn't suppress the small bit of laughter that escaped her mouth.

After preparing her bag with the fake documents and second vase, Emmy gave Ward a friendly peck on the cheek and a wink, prompting him to adjust his collar a little more vigorously than usual, perhaps to hide the small flush that had appeared on his face. "See you in a bit, Ward!"

"Be careful!" was his high-pitched reply. She could hear him clear his throat hastily as she closed the door to the flat.

Emmy smiled. She was an expert. This would be the easiest and most exciting heist yet.

* * *

**_Ward will hopefully become more fleshed out as the story goes on. I have a few ideas for him._**

**_Reviews are always a wonderful way of saying, "Hey, this story is kind of cool and it would also be cool for you to continue!" So feel free to drop one in the box._**

**_This story will most likely be going on a short hiatus as I wrap up with finals and SATs and such, but I'll be back as soon as I can! _**

_**Off to study gee wiz oh boy,**_

_**Lizz**_


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